


Strength, Turning

by murderofonerose (atmilliways)



Series: Strike A Chord [3]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Boss/Employee Relationship, Enemies and Lovers, M/M, Melmord is so ADHD, Melmord tries his hand at cryptocurrency, Mild S&M, branding mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:23:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/murderofonerose
Summary: “Do you know why you’re here?”Melmord shrugged and slouched down into the chair that two burly Klokateers had just deposited him in. He was contemplating putting his boots up on the desk. “Well, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it was because you missed my smiling face.”
Relationships: Melmord Fjordslorn/Charles Foster Offdensen
Series: Strike A Chord [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076360
Comments: 6
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Major Arcana themed prompt: I was given Charles/Melmord and the cards Strength and Temperance. 
> 
> Fun fact, this is the intro on the Strength (Tarot card) Wikipedia page: "Strength is a Major Arcana Tarot card, and is numbered either XI or VIII, depending on the deck. Historically it was called Fortitude, **and in the Thoth Tarot deck it is called Lust.** "

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Melmord shrugged and slouched down into the chair that two burly Klokateers had just deposited him in. He was contemplating putting his boots up on the desk. “Well, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it was because you missed my smiling face.” 

He tried to smirk around a split lip and a black eye, but wasn’t sure if it quite came across. 

Charles stared back at him, still expressionless. “No. It’s because you’ve been persuading your coworkers to sink their paychecks into a new form of alternative cryptocurrency called—” a slight grimace passed briefly over his pale face “—Melmcoin.”

“Melms for short,” Melmord confirmed. “What’s the matter, you don’t like ‘em?”

“The problem,” Charles replied sternly, “is that it falls under an absolute ban in several countries and an implicit ban in quite a few more. As Dethklok Inc. is essentially a global entity, your claim that this altcoin is good ‘anywhere the wind blows up your fucking skirt’ is both inaccurate and misleading.”

“Hm.” Melmord dabbed the cut on his lip against his sleeve—he still refused to wear the standard issue black shirts that had been provided to him, so unlike most he actually _had_ sleeves to do this with. The only button down shirt he owned these days was a faded salmon color, which helped hide small bloodstains like nobody’s business. “I’ll discuss that with my head of marketing.”

“It’s also caught on enough to spread beyond Mordland grounds,” Charles continued, flipping open the cover of a rather thick report. “By the way, since you used Dethklok employees as the ground zero for this thing, it’s already more commonly known as Dethcoin.”

“Figures,” Melmord sighed. 

“In addition, the blockchain you’re using is far too cumbersome. You’re now gaining thousands of users by the hour, so a single transaction currently takes about a week to go through and the transaction fees have shot sky high. If it weren’t for the perceived association with Dethklok, no one would still be using it and you would have caused some kind of global financial crisis, not to mention all the crypto-mining activity that’s already taking down massive segments of the internet. As it is, I believe you may have noticed that some of your coworkers aren’t exactly pleased by the direction their investments have taken.”

“No, really?” he said sarcastically, and poked gingerly at some of his teeth to make sure nothing had been punched loose. “Is there a ‘but’ coming up sometime soon, or are you just enjoying being an ass?”

Charles snapped the file shut, one of his hands slipping under the edge of the desk. “Per your contract, Dethklok Inc. owns all of your intellectual property, so ‘Melmcoin’ is being seized and the name changed. Effective immediately. Going forward, you are _strongly_ encouraged to stick to your assigned task of remedial drill master for the new recruits.”

Nope, no loose teeth. Melmord decided philosophically to take that as his only win of the day. “Great. I’ll just go get back to that, then.”

There was the soft click of a button, and an even softer sound of the office door bolting itself shut. 

“I’m afraid that will be insufficient.”

 _That_ got Melmord’s attention. He sat up straight, feet firmly on the floor. “What? Hey, as someone who just got the crap kicked out of him in a locker room riot, I really don’t think this is necessary.”

“ _Melm_ coin,” Charles said flatly. God, Melmord thought, the bastard was so hard to read. What was he planning here? “Not exactly, ah, subtle.”

“Not my brand. That’s your monopoly, remember?”

“And yours is trying my patience.”

It was a kind of tunnel vision. The rest of the office was a watercolor afterthought, details mostly concentrated around anything that could potentially be used as a weapon. He couldn’t look away from Charles—well, he _could_ , physically, it would just be fucking stupid. 

How messed up was it that this was the most alive he’d felt in weeks? 

Until this moment he’d been pretty sure that the only reason he’d been up to shit was because he was _bored_ —and maybe a bit due to lacking the discipline to really settle into the job he was _supposed_ to be doing. No one wanted to hang around with him because he refused to wear either the hood or most of the uniform, as though having a personal identity was just . . . weird. (Melmord figured he still had years to go before he’d end up so broken-in by this place.) Remedial teaching brought him the kind of Klokateers who didn’t give a shit about fighting and whom no one had particularly high expectations of, but it was the kind of gig where, if he proved himself both competent and dedicated he could easily move up to a better caliber of students. And the thing was? He didn’t give a shit about any of it. 

So, he reflected as Charles stood and stalked around the desk towards him, maybe he’d wanted to land himself here again. It was something different to break up the monotony, and considering their last interaction, the man was probably at least half as likely to fuck him (again) as kill him (again). . . . Obviously, he was rooting for the former. Who wouldn’t? Not because Offdensen was a catch or anything, but because that was better than death. Melmord’s heart was already beating faster, hoping to get some extra living in at the last moment just in case. 

Charles stood in front of him, not exactly tall enough to loom but doing an impressive job of it anyway. Melmord’s lazy sprawl had suddenly become a very _haphazard_ lazy sprawl. “Do you know what the most irritating thing about you is?”

“That you're constantly intimidated by my good looks?”

That went ignored. “It’s that you actually had a good idea,” Charles continued. “You, ah, nearly ran it into the ground, of course. And I doubt that you’d come up with more in any reliable sense—your last big idea was to try and kill me, and it proved to be an, ah, exceptionally bad one.”

Melmord’s mouth hardened into a line. Did there really have to be some reference to picking their fateful sword fight _every_ time? 

“If you weren’t so damn erratic I could find a specific department to put you to good use in.” And then, to twist the blade through his chest even harder, Charles took off his glasses and began cleaning them on a handkerchief, like he wasn’t even a threat worth keeping an eye on. The tunnel vision seemed entirely one-sided. 

“Hey,” Melmord snapped, shifting to tap his foot pointedly against one of the man’s Oxfords. “I’m not erratic, that’s offensive.” He crossed his arms sulkily. “I have ADHD.”

Charles sighed through his nose but calmly finished what he was doing. “Hm. Yes, according to my research you’ve never been formally diagnosed but have been, ah, self-medicating with weed for quite some time, regardless.” 

After replacing his glasses and handkerchief, he produced a plastic vial from an inner pocket. Inside was a neatly rolled joint, stamped with the Dethklok logo in green ink. 

“Perhaps you could do with a renewal of that prescription.”

Now Melmord’s eyes were glued to that vial. God, he fucking wanted it, just to really be able to unwind, finally _relax_ in a way he hadn’t been able to since becoming a gear. _Fucking bastard._

“I see I have your full attention,” Charles said dryly. “Thank you. Now, keep in mind that I’m going to give this to you either way, in the interest of preventing more incidents like this cryptocurrency venture of yours.”

“Cut to the fucking point, what do you want?” Melmord growled. 

There was a pause, and then—“Smoke it in my bedroom.”

And there it was. 

Melmord didn’t know what he’d expected. Dethklok Inc.’s CFO to roll his chair back and just tell him to suck it? An engraved invitation on pristine stationary? Anything but this weird, delicately blended combination of suggestion, request, and demand that defied all his assumptions about what the rules were supposed to be here. He turned that over in his head for a moment, Charles’ gaze heavy on him. 

The thought came to him like deja vu (though he couldn’t quite remember when he’d thought it before) that it was like Charles didn’t know how to stop fighting, and all this was just footwork in another kind of duel. And, okay, that he could understand. 

Melmord touched gingerly at his eye again, which had at least decided to stop at not _too_ swollen. Security really had scooped him up pretty quick, all things considered. Both eyes intact, no teeth loose, the split in his lip had stopped bleeding. . . . Yeah, he was up for this. 

“Alright,” he said, levering himself out of the chair and meeting the other man’s stare dead on. “Not that I’d know where that fucking is, having never been there before, so you’ll have to lead the way.” Already feeling like pushing his luck again, now that he knew the game a little better, he swiped the container out of Charles’ hand with a smirk. Uncapping it, he slid the joint out into one hand and tossed the rest in favor of holding his palm out impatiently. “You got a lighter, or what?”

Obviously having anticipated the request already, Charles tossed him one with a roll of his eyes and shouldered past. 

Not gently, either. Melmord bit back a grin and followed. _This ought to be fun._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the NSFW chapter. You have been warned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy belated birthday, Marin! 😃
> 
> The smut dialogue prompts for this were “You don’t have to be gentle with me, I don’t break easily” and "Is that a tattoo?” I managed to use both!

Charles was both on board with and deeply uncertain about what was happening—such a pity it had been his own idea. 

Or had it? Melmord’s offer of _“Wanna unwind?”_ had been percolating in his head, thrumming in his blood ever since he’d first heard it. A long time ago now, considering the man’s extensive injuries and long recovery, followed by . . . that awkward encounter before Melmord’s gear branding. An encounter that, like this one, Charles himself had initiated, but hadn’t felt nearly as in control of as he would have liked. 

But over the past few months he had noticed himself carrying more and more tension, snapping at his assistants for increasingly miniscule errors, and taking a little too much enjoyment in checking on the Piracy Consequences Department down in the basement. Unwinding every now and then was less of a recreational endeavor than it was a necessity. 

He led the way through his apartment to the bedroom, but hung back by the door out of curiosity to see what the other man would do. It did not particularly surprise him when Melmord took just a quick look around before sitting down on the edge of the bed like he owned the place. What must it be like, he wondered, to be so casual and relaxed while intruding on someone’s inner sanctum? 

His own foray into Melmord’s room in the employee barracks had been different, of course. Melmord didn’t _own_ that, and had only just moved in at the time. Charles had lived here for over a decade, designed and decorated everything to his liking, and seldom had visitors besides Dethklok kicking in his door at odd hours of the night to complain whenever Rockso wormed his way onto Mordland grounds again. It was different. 

Melmord took a deep pull from his joint, held it for a moment, and then released the curling smoke in one long, luxurious stream, muttering, “Fuck, that’s good. This is good shit, man, thanks.” He gave a sly grin and patted the bedspread next to him. “You want a hit?”

“No.” Charles shut the bedroom door. The click of the latch sounded loud, like a bar against turning back, and his heart rate was already speeding up. It was only a matter of time before his budding excitement, much as a part of him wished to contain or even will it away entirely, became obvious. 

He went to the bedside table instead, retrieved a few things from a drawer, and tossed one of them in Melmord’s direction without looking directly at the man, or giving himself any more time to think about what a bad idea this still was. 

“Here. For, ah. Something to do while you smoke.”

“Oh yeah?” Melmord checked the bottle. Even as Charles made his way to the chair at a desk he usually used only for answering personal correspondence, he could hear the smirk in the man’s voice. “Lube? Charles, you shouldn’t have.”

“Probably not,” he replied evenly, settling and swiveling the chair to face the bed. Yes, there was the smirk, plastered across Melmord’s perpetually stubbled face. He wished that the willingness it implied didn’t make his dress slacks feel still more confining than they should. 

Employee-employer relationships never went well. He had seen enough corporate lawsuits to know that even in his pre-Dethklok days. But this wasn’t anything so personal as a relationship; it was literally in Melmord’s contract, as they’d agreed. That, technically, made it business. 

He was absolutely sure that none of his inner doubts showed on his face, but Melmord still looked him over and then held the joint out in offering. “You sure you don’t want a hit? You’re looking pretty stiff, boss, and not just in the fun way.”

“Offer again and I’m taking it away from you,” Charles replied curtly. 

Melmord shrugged and dropped backwards into a lounge, propped up on his elbows. “Okay, okay, chill, man.” He took another languorous hit and reached to undo his belt one-handed. “So, what kind of show are you looking for?”

“A silent one.”

He didn’t actually expect Melmord to stay quiet for long, but the retort got him to mime zipping his lips shut with a roll of his eyes. Good enough for the moment, as the silver oval buckle was tossed to the floor, black belt leather trailing after it like a dead snake. Then Melmord was haphazardly kicking his boots off and shimmying his pants to the floor. . . . 

Freeballing again. What was it he had said, the night of the branding? _What can I say, I live as I died_. Charles knew for a fact the man had been provided with standard issue Facebones-print boxers. Why wear the official Klokateer boots but not the underwear?

As Charles watched, the other man was studying him just as intently, trying to pick up on clues as to what was expected of him. It was a fool’s errand to try—no one had been able to call Charles’ poker face with complete confidence since his early teens—but it was also the most zeal and zazz he’d seen from the man since . . . well, this whole Melmcoin scheme, and the first time he’d seen it applied to something that had actually been asked of him. 

Melmord unbuttoned his shirt, not looking at his own scars with an air of _fuck you_ defiance, and uncapped the lube. Joint held stubbornly between his lips, he settled on the end of the bed nearest Charles. The way his legs rested to either side of a corner really put the start of an erection on display, which . . . slightly battered face aside, wasn’t a bad move, Charles thought, resisting the urge to shift in his chair. Far too early for that. 

Still eyeing his boss, Melmord gently but firmly pressed the palm of his hand against his cock, exhaling at the contact. 

“When was the last time you touched yourself?” Charles found himself asking. 

Melmord huffed a laugh, coughing a little on smoke. “I don’t know, it’s not like I mark the calendar or anything.”

“So not often, then.”

For a second Melmord visibly considered lying, but then he shrugged, idly rocking his palm against himself. “Not a lot. The employee housing in this place is bullshit. All the random screaming in the middle of the night? Kind of a boner killer.” A sleazy grin started to bloom on his face, though holding onto the joint rendered it more of a one-sided smirk. “Hey, is this your roundabout way of asking if I’m keeping this exclusive?”

In fact, the regular medical appointments were his way of making sure Melmord didn’t pick up anything in the barracks that he would prefer to avoid, but Charles assumed he was intelligent enough to know that already. He narrowed his eyes instead, and said, “How often do you, ah, finger yourself?”

Another cough, and Melmord was suddenly pressing harder against his erection. “Not a lot,” he admitted. 

“Start,” Charles ordered. “That way you’ll, ah, arrive better prepared, next time.”

“Better—Hey, fuck you, man!”

He allowed himself a faint smile at having successfully scored the first point. “That’s not exactly the idea here.” 

“You don’t control my free time, man,” Melmord complained, even as he squeezed a generous amount of lube on his fingers. 

“No. I just own it.”

Melmord scowled as he reached down, but Charles ignored that. It was the arm that had been mangled by the Mordland bullet train, painstakingly pieced back together in the operating room; when Melmord traced slicked fingers over his asshole and eased the first finger into himself, it came at the expense of hundreds of hours of physical therapy. 

_I’ll get gone and stay as gone as you want me to._ Ha. Melmord’s generous salary barely put a dent in his medical debts, and he would be at Mordhaus for decades doing actual work just to justify the free room and board. 

For all the man’s talk of _not a lot,_ it sure didn’t take him long to find the spot inside that made him shudder and curl his toes. _He’s enjoying this_ , Charles thought, blood humming in approval. Despite all the complaints, Melmord was actually following orders quite well. 

_How tightly wound do you have to be to hold it together around all that shit without anyone noticing you get off on it?_

Their encounter on the roof had been a long time ago; the busy CFO hadn’t had a decent opportunity or cause to cut loose since then, and the anticipation now had him already painfully hard. He told himself that anyone could have him this excited at this point, the spring was cranked so tight—but it wasn’t _anyone_ , it was this douchebag. Again. Because . . . that was the deal. 

Charles undid his tie and laid it neatly over the arm of the chair. “More,” he prompted, and heard Melmord’s grunt of confirmation before a second finger was slowly added. He looked up to see Melmord, half collapsed back over the bed but propped up on one elbow, bare heels braced on the corner of the mattress now—staring at him while slowly and lewdly working himself open. Charles shifted in his chair, trying to cover it by shrugging off his jacket, but he could tell from Melmord’s distracted smirk that it didn’t go unnoticed. 

Tied score. All right then. 

Holding eye contact, he undid his belt and laid it over the tie. “Well? Keep going.”

Melmord huffed and snatched the joint from his mouth to ash it over the polished stone floor. “Work, work, work,” he muttered. Sucking on the stub of smouldering remains, he started moving his fingers again and moaned out a near-perfect smoke ring. “When are you going to get over here and take advantage of me already?”

“When I damn well please,” Charles retorted, then pulled the zipper of his suit pants and pushed everything down just enough to free himself. “More,” he ordered again. Just a single syllable; that way there was no chance of stuttering or sounding particularly breathless, in defiance of the curl of arousal that whiplashed through him as he took his erection in hand. _God_ , it had been so long. . . .

As Melmord gamely added a third finger, panting with the effort, Charles stroked himself and wondered for a delirious moment exactly how much he could get the man to put up there—but even he only had so much patience. He lasted another minute, maybe two, before standing and moving towards the bed. 

Melmord watched him every step of the way. Eyes wide open, lips still clamped around the only source of THC he’d been allowed since landing in the hospital, chest heaving in anticipation as his cock dribbled onto his stomach. Still putting on a show, whether it was intentional at this point or not, and Charles appreciated that, he really did. His eyes roved intently over the wanton display as he took a moment to unbutton and roll up his shirtsleeves. 

“Oh come _on_ ,” Melmord whined when all Charles did next was touch his own cock again. A second later his eyes went wide as Charles leaned down, suddenly close, and plucked the essentially dead joint from his mouth. 

It was the hand that he’d just touched himself with; he very intentionally left a smear of pre-come on Melmord’s lip before straightening up again. The joint went on the floor where Charles stepped on it, grinding it out under the heel of his expensive Italian loafers. He watched, satisfied, as Melmord’s tongue darted uncertainly out and swiped at that lip for a taste. 

There was a line to this somewhere that he still didn’t want to cross, even though the whole thing was a bad idea either way. As long as everything was consensual, it was still . . . _fine_. Melmord was pushing the lube into his hand and he took it, because it was attention to the details that made him a goddamned amazing lawyer. Little details like, Melmord had been the first to suggest sex in the first place; Melmord had accepted the invitation to smoke in his room; Melmord had stripped and stretched himself, whining occasionally for the sake of being contrary but not actually _protesting_. And there was the matter of Melmord’s contract, of course. For better or worse, it would hold up in court. 

“If I were to, ah, leave you to your own devices right now,” Charles heard himself ask, “what would you say?”

“That you’re a fucking pussy-ass tease,” Melmord snapped immediately. “Come on, Offdensen, fuck me or get off the pothead.” 

“Right answer.” Charles gripped his hips hard—and turned him over, eliciting a squawk as Melmord suddenly found himself face down against the bedspread and on still-bent knees with his ass in the air. 

He allowed the man a brief moment to adjust to the change, while retrieving the condom he’d taken from the bedside table earlier from one pocket, ripping it open, and rolling it on himself. It took less than a second to slick the outside with lubricant, and then the lube bottle and empty wrapper went back in the pocket. Charles regained his grip on Melmord, just one hand this time. That one brief pause was all the warning he gave as he lined himself up; then he thrust forward, and sank in. 

“ _Ohfuck_ ,” Melmord groaned, sagging onto his arms and face. 

With his back to him, Melmord couldn’t see Charles biting his lip in an effort not to groan as well. He focused instead on the body beneath him, the healed brand on the back of Melmord’s neck peeking out between disheveled hair that looked in need of a wash and trim. His eyes drifted lower . . . and paused. 

“Is that a, ah, tattoo?”

“Huh?” Melmord didn’t bother lifting his head. “Oh. Uh, yeah, I got one of my neighbors to tat me up. Could you, like, move or something?”

“Be quiet,” Charles said, low but firm. He reached forward and held the other man still, one hand taking a strangling hold his hair; Melmord squirmed impatiently but stopped talking. 

It didn’t have a lot of detail. Just a small collection of black lines, about the size of a thumbprint, stylized to give the impression of a very small high-speed train approaching head-on and a short length of track leading it still closer. It was just low enough that it wouldn't show over the collar of his shirt, resting right on top of where the ridged scar tissue began as though poised to run over the marred skin all over again. Charles wondered if Melmord had paid the unnamed artist in cryptocurrency. 

He also wondered if Melmord had gotten it for himself, or if he’d gotten it specifically for this moment, this position, where he couldn’t help but see it. Which wasn’t exactly fair, because it wasn’t as though. . . . Well, he _did_ have the train schedule more or less memorized, but he hadn’t been thinking about it at the time. He’d been too caught up in the fight and the blood pounding in his veins. 

Melmord gave an impatient whine and pulled against his grasp to try and look around at him. “Come _on_ , man, what—”

Blood pounding in his veins now, too. Charles took a steadying breath and let his self-control slip. He interrupted the complaint by pushing all the way in, and just as quickly jerked back and then in again with a fluid snap of his hips. 

“—Waa _aaahaha_. . . .”

Leaning down, jerking Melmord’s head back to growl in his ear, “Is this what you had in mind?” He punctuated the question with another thrust, a slightly different angle, searching. “Is this what you wanted?”

“Pretty much,” Melmord managed. He sounded like the air had been pushed out of him. Point. 

“Good. Touch yourself,” Charles instructed. Except for the slight heaviness of breath, he could have been running a board meeting—which was precisely the sort of thing he needed to be free of, if only for a while. “Exactly how I tell you.”

Melmord grunted and reached beneath himself for his cock, not needing to be told twice. “How?” he rasped. 

“Keep up with me.” For emphasis, Charles rolled his hips hard and bottomed out, leaning down and biting harshly at the knot of scar tissue that was the other man’s shoulder. “But don’t come until I tell you to.”

Another hard thrust at just the right angle made Melmord shout, and Charles, mind whiting-out and sparking at the resulting clench, was eager to test him by abusing it. 

He let Melmord’s hair go to get a better grip on his hips, and his rival’s head dropped like a stone to rest on the scarred forearm he was bracing himself on, hand whiteknuckled on the bedspread. Melmord gave pushback with every thrust, urging Charles on, just a bit deeper, just a bit harder. A silent _You don’t have to be gentle with me, I don’t break easily_ to go with the symphony of grunts and groans and expletives Melmord was spewing. And he was keeping up, too, his other arm pistoning away hard, the desperation building up in his cries. 

It was building in Charles, too, bubbling up and leaking through the cracks. He’d thought about this, without admitting to himself that’s what he’d been doing. During Melmord’s branding he’d thought about Melmord kneeling before him instead of the block, hood gone and lips wrapped obediently around Charles’ cock. He’d imagined cradling Melmord’s head with one hand, holding the hair off his neck, just enough pressure to make it clear that he was in control, and the brand in the other. Thought about branding him right at the point of orgasm, still holding him in place so there was nowhere to go but forward, swallowing reflexively and gagging and drooling but still taking him deeper and deeper—

Charles came in spasms so strong it felt as though something was being ripped out of him. Breathing hard and eyes suddenly burning, he tried to curl in on himself but was hampered by the facts that he was still standing, and still almost fully dressed, and Melmord was still in the way. 

He pressed his forehead to the arched, scarred back for what seemed like an eternity while the other man writhed beneath him, cried out, spasmed and milked the last of whatever Charles had left . . . and then sagged bonelessly onto the mattress, ass still in the air. 

_Classy_ , Charles thought vaguely. _Leave it to junior management._

After a moment he gathered the energy to pull out and sit on the bed, tossing the used condom in the bedside wastebasket. The lingering scent of weed in the room and the post-orgasm stillness in him combined into a kind of faux-high that he floated on, feeling both weightless and very heavy at the same time. He tucked his softening cock back in his pants and watched Melmord slowly collapse to one side, towards him but still facing away, with a languorous stretch. 

“Fffffuck,” Melmord sighed, sounding sated and stoned as hell. “That was. . . . Wow.”

The bruises from the riot that had landed him in Charles’ office in the first place still looked bad, but there were bite marks on his back and shoulder that would look worse soon enough—Charles was too drained at the moment to feel much more than smug about that. He reached out and pressed a thumb to one experimentally, the corner of his mouth twitching when Melmord gave a breathy groan in response. 

“You like violence too, don’t you?” Charles demanded. The full weight and implications of that _too_ didn’t hit him until after the words were already out. 

He’d never talked about this with anyone, ever, and he was breaking that streak on _this_ asshole?

In response, Melmord laughed. “Well duh, where’ve you been?” He rolled over gingerly onto his back, his legs unbending and hanging awkwardly off the bed in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. His side pressed against Charles’ outer thigh. “Who checks their opponent for a boner in the middle of a fight to the death if they _don’t_ get off on some rough competition? Of course,” he added, staring blithely up at the high ceiling, “I bit off more’n I could chew, didn’t I? You fucking killed me.”

“And made sure that didn’t, ah, take.” Whether he was trying to or not, Melmord’s comment didn’t inspire so much as a twinge of actual guilt. Melmord had challenged him to a sword fight for his position; Melmord had lost. Charles had merely defended himself, and had no use for survivor’s guilt. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Melmord yawned, his eyes starting to drift shut. “I’d say the worst you could do is kill me again . . . but that probably ain’t true, is it, Offdensen?”

It was almost comical. Melmord was completely naked, hair damp and sticking in every direction (including to his face), and covered in his own spend. Charles was . . . disheveled by his own standards, in his rolled-up shirtsleeves with no tie or belt, but next to _that_? He didn’t even need to change his suit if he didn’t want to, and the lack of urgency there made him disinclined to bother. In the wake of much-needed release, it would be easy to go straight back to work with a renewed sense of inner calm. 

Of course, he couldn’t do that until Melmord left, because there was no way in hell he was leaving the man in his rooms unsupervised. 

“Don’t fall asleep,” Charles said sharply, noticing that Melmord’s eyes were fully closed. “You’re not staying.”

With a groan, one eye popped reluctantly open. “Seriously? I thought we shared a moment.”

“No.” Fastidiously, Charles began rolling his sleeves back down and smoothing out wrinkles as best he could. “You just, ah, referenced my killing you, followed by my capacity to have you tortured. Now, I have my, ah, very important job to go back to you, and you have . . . a job, although I would make yourself scarce after-hours for a while until your coworkers no longer want to pummel you. So.” He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing any wayward strands back into place. “Get your clothes on and step to it.”

Melmord did, glaring resentfully at him every couple of steps. But, Charles observed, it wasn’t a _bad_ limp, and the man could have easily made the situation in his pants less unpleasantly sticky for himself by wearing underwear. 

Charles led the way out of the bedroom through his apartment, but hung back by his desk, finger resting on the remote lock button, while Melmord took the slightly longer route to the office door. He didn’t press it until the other man reached for the door knob, just before actual contact. 

The timing got him another annoyed over-the-shoulder glare, but there was a placidness behind it that Charles both noted and, reluctantly, understood. When he was alone in his office once more, he retrieved and opened his laptop with a deep sense of perfect indifference. Towards Melmord, towards frivolous lawsuits and the boys’ absurd antics of the day . . . and, most of all, to the moral relativity of it all, let go like a sigh of relief.


End file.
